


Not in vain

by phisen



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, M/M, More angst, Possible backstory for Victor, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 03:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17841335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phisen/pseuds/phisen
Summary: Five times Victor thought of the things that once were and one time he faced the thing that is.





	Not in vain

**Author's Note:**

> Long time no see, you guys! Life has been super busy as it can be at times and I have barely written a single line in months, but, Victor's 30th birthday was something that called me out of my hidey-hole. This is a 5+1 thing, I've found I really like to write those kind of things, full with the angst we all love so dearly :) The +1-story will come in a week or two.  
> Happy belated birthday, Victor!
> 
> The title comes from **Alexandr Pushkin's** poem  ** _Angel;_**
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> _"I've seen you," he enunciated, -_  
>  "And not in vain you've sent me light  
> 

 

On the eve of The Birthday, Victor is the one who lies sleepless.

It's not common for him to do so, roll around in bed like a wraith uneasy and not become immediately whisked away by the slightest hint of sleep, feeling every dent and elevation the otherwise soothing and soft landscape creates against his muscles and skin as he tries to settle. Victor is usually a good sleeper, one that becomes one with oblivion as soon as his head makes contact with the pillow but tonight, every change in position, every twist and turn only adds more; more uncomfortability, more movement, more  _thoughts_.

For that is what happens, and undoubtedly so, when a person is breaching the barrier between being a young adult and finally becoming one. When one, at least in theory, has to start to act one's age. When life is supposed to have reached some kind of destination when one is just supposed to  _know_ , be they solutions, answers, explanations, no matter what come one's way to contest one's savvy. At least, that is what one might think.

But… even though the topics above would be reasonable to think about, they are not what runs through Victor's head that night. Instead, when Victor turns around to the right for the umpteenth time, wrestles his pillow in a headlock at the bend of his arm and breathes out as his eyes fling open, he sees the top of a head clad in a myriad of tousled, black strands of hair. And this is when he stops for the first time that night. Stops and allows himself to open up to those thoughts that have been prodding him, lurking around him, pestering him. Almost singing a siren's song, asking him to play with them. Luring him to go deeper.

Victor rarely thinks about age and he doesn't do it this night either, despite aching joints and a back feeling stiff. Instead, upon seeing Yuuri's hair and catching the faintest whiff of him through the duvet that is almost swallowing him up, Victor nuzzles in. Rests his cheek against that forest of dark, wraps his arm around the ever rising, ever falling frame underneath that thick duvet and goes on a journey. For that is how Victor is, really, not worried about things to come, not anymore, but rather, pensive about things that once were. Pensive about the thing, the mere concept of something, he hasn't been able to understand up until recently.

_What led me to this?_

 

**:: I ::**

 

Victor is but eight years old when he finally understands something that is cruel to a boy so young. Or rather, it's a cruel thing to learn at any age, but devastating to an eight year old. Devastating in ways people can't possibly imagine.

When Victor is eight, he knows that his father acts strange at times. Not only has he noticed people react to his papo, he has seen it first hand for himself. Felt it too. Not only the smell that emanates from papo's mere presence, but how everyone just mellows down when he's like that. How everyone suddenly acts like they are invisible. Or, like papo's invisible, by averting their eyes and going about their day despite what plays out before them.

Needless to say, papo isn't and never will be invisible, especially when he's like that. When he's like that, that  _uninvisible_ , he becomes more angry, more scary, more loud. More unpredictable. He becomes scarier than stories about Baba Yaga, who papo sometimes tells Victor about when he doesn't smell or is angry. Victor decided early that he'd rather meet the trollop than the strange version of his father; the old bag is someone who he can understand, or at least predict.

Even though it's frightening in ways Victor doesn't quite know how to express yet, he has figured out a way to deal with that kind of papo, the one that swears, breaks things and not only things, and keeps raging like a countryside blizzard by whipping everyone and everything into submission by his mere presence alone. The key to that, at least to an eight year old Victor's way of dealing with the world, is to try harder in everything he does. That makes sense to him, to try harder to learn French, to try harder to read classical poetry although he doesn't understand half of the words, to try harder to skate… It makes sense to try, to make it all better in the chase for perfect, for papo is never satisfied. Victor knows that he just needs to try a little harder to make it so. Then, papo will definitely be happy. It'll be different.

So when Victor finally learns his first lesson, he's eight going on nine within a few months. Fate has orchestrated that he stands by the exit to the rink that day, talking ceaselessly to Yakov, hands doing as much talking as his mouth. All because this is the day. It's the day when mama has promised and papo has too, and mama said she would bring Rusja as well.

Despite this day full of promises, the mere knowledge of it becoming the greatest day in his life in a matter of minutes, he can't really figure out why Yakov looks like that sometimes. So serious with a face made out of stone, with a hand firmly squeezing his shoulder. Yakov never does that. The squeezing.

Victor starts to think that it's a new thing with Yakov, instead of barking in public his hand does the barking instead. After all, this is a competition, it's supposed to be fun although Yakov, nor his hand, don't see it like that. But to Victor, it will be. He's sure of it.

Victor feels nervous standing there initially, waiting for the other boys to skate their programs. He's nervous because there's a small voice inside that he hasn't really made friends with yet, mainly because it always tells him things he doesn't want to hear. Things that instills doubt in him, things that are harsh and unfriendly, things that he already knows. But suddenly, he fills up with something inside that is close to pride but not quite, because he knows that he will not only amaze the others freezing inside the skating complex. He'll amaze papo.

Victor feels this exhilarating feeling when he notices his family, finally, as they criss cross down to empty seats. Today, his family does indeed mean all of them and not only mama who naturally is the only one waving and smiling from ear to ear, and to be honest, he feels more than pride. He feels warm, despite his sparkly blue costume that is way too thin and flimsy to be able to keep him so.

When his name is called, he doesn't skate straight to the centre of the rink like the others who, probably, have been dying to get their routines over with. He skates by the small flock of people instead, watches how they shiver where they sit, and tries to catch a glance from not only mama and Rusja, he tries to get it from papo too. And he does get it skating past the audience, and although it's a fleeting glance at best before it redirects towards mama, it's an eternity to an eight year old Victor. A Victor who is still full of the hope and forgiveness that children often are. No matter what they've witnessed or been through.

Shortly thereafter, after that glance and his strides to stand in the middle on the ice, his ponytail whips his face as he moves. The music is coursing through him now, taking him over. Victor remembers the program well, and even though it really is a simple thing considering his age, he is adamant as his blades cuts the ice. Today is the day he will satisfy papo. He's going to show him how hard he's been trying. Trying, just for him. To make him happy.

Although Yakov said 'no' numerous times, so many times that Victor has started to think that's his new pet name, Victor has no intention to abide to the word. That's why he lines himself up, passes by the small crowd again to prepare for a Salchow, his eyes scanning the rows of people. It's hard to spot them at first, his family, but not because they are lost in the crowd. No, it's because of them being close to the exit in the back. Once his eyes are on them, they stand out like a light in the dark, an image forever burned upon his retinas.

Victor manages to catch a glimpse of his brother's back before it disappears, rejoining the world outside where blue and blistered feet aren't a part of life. The familiar picture, that of his mother tugging at his father's arm, now with their backs turned to the ice, is what it takes to make Victor decide.

He jumps.

The crowd draws a collective breath as Victor prepares himself for the harsh embrace of the ice, but this time, he finds himself still on his feet and he's almost as amazed as the crowd that begins to clap when they have gathered their bearings. Although Victor should notice the crowd appreciate his endeavours, his eyes aren't taking them in. Instead, he's searching for those familiar shapes. The ones he now cannot find.

When Victor finishes his dance, he cries. He cries when he skates off the ice to meet Yakov and his crushing embrace, he cries when he receives his score, he cries when he's placed in the middle on that poor excuse of a podium. He cries, but it's not because of him managing to do a double salchow, winning that competition, getting attention from everyone watching.

He cries, because he actually managed to do nothing. Nothing that could ever be good enough.

 

**~**~**

 

It's with a sigh Victor rolls over to his back, his eyes trying to see the bumpy structure of the ceiling above him but not making it out. It's dark both inside and out now having revisited that memory, and Victor covers his eyes with his arm for a second or so as he feels that flutter starting.

Victor thought he had gotten rid of it. Or at least, lost it for an indefinite amount of time. That feeling of being small and insignificant, unable to do anything that could ever matter in the eyes of the ones he wants to be watched by.

It's a horrible feeling.

After reaching for his mobile, his fingers doing one hell of a balancing act by pinching it between them and moving it from the nightstand to the bed, he dives underneath his duvet to prevent the bluish light that now lights up his cave from spreading to the outside.

Victor notices the time first, a few minutes to eleven, before he starts to flip through saved photos in the phone's gallery. The images are mostly of Yuuri, naturally, in a myriad of clothed and unclothed variations. A few cute ones of Makkachin are still there even though it still hurts to look at them, and not surprisingly this time too. But, almost as far down in the folder where Victor stores images he's undecided to keep, he sees a photo he instantly knows he'll delete within a few minutes.

He just has to remember how it was, before he does.

 

**:: II ::**

 

Victor is fourteen when he has his fingers tangled up in a girl's hair for the first and last time.

It's an ordinary day at the Yubileyny sport complex, the rink slowly losing its pull as it usually does when it's close to lunch. Most skaters vacate the rink to sit where it's warmer and easier to eat whatever's been brought from home, but not Victor. Not today.

Of course, Victor's almost always asked to come with, to sit in the cafeteria with the other skaters to laugh and gossip and talk technique, and he does that often. He likes to be caught up in others, to be in the centre of attention because that is how he has turned out. Although he's still too young to understand this, he fills himself with others, fills himself with their energy and adoration to get by and he works hard to get it. But every now and then, his Mistress calls him, beckons him to stay within Her cold embrace. When that happens, Victor never declines Her and that's exactly what happens this day, when he's fourteen and by now fully devoted to his relationship with Her. With the ice.

When She calls for him, it usually begins as something as insignificant as a thought, maybe even an indistinct whisper inside himself. Victor hasn't really been able to grasp what brings it on, but he's felt it enough times to know that he needs to listen. She always starts low, and maybe Her calling is what makes him act flippant and defiant. Maybe, She's what makes him not listen to Yakov even though the man's face is red, knuckles whitening and voice rising, but Victor can't help it. When She tells him to do, he does because She becomes all and everything inside him and... it usually ends well. Usually.

This time, She started to prod him when he was working on spins, asking him to push a little more. Asking him to make him worth Her while. That's why the Biellmann turns into something more dramatic, and it's probably the reason why Yakov cries in a way that almost takes away the attention that should be directed at Victor. Which, naturally, makes Victor do that death drop sit spin with Yakov's voice barely audible although he's probably screaming at the top of his lungs. Yakov's face looks agitated enough as he flashes by with every rotation, much to Victor's amusement.

Victor's Mistress, though, She mellows out after that display, that exhibition of what blooms inside him but still tries to break through completely. She's content and becomes nothing but a murmur as the rink is buzzing and Yakov's close to shrieking. Victor's laugh drowns Her out a little, his response to Yakov's growls once he steps off the ice, as he becomes caught up in the flood of other skaters who are ready to fill themselves with enough energy to last a few more hours.

When they've had a conversation, The Ice and himself, Victor often opts out from being social. It's like their discussions have an aftermath, where he needs to sit in silence for a while. Contemplate what he's done with Her help, what her words made him do. This is why he finds himself alone now, sitting close by the boards with his backpack next to him. After taking off his gloves, he untagles his hair from his hair tie and leaves it around his wrist for later, pulling back the sections that fall down in front of his face. Tucking them behind his ear again and again, whilst opening up his backpack and picks out his thermos.

The soup steams when he pours it into the lid, now a makeshift cup, and he blows on it to cool it off although he knows that it'll be just right in a minute or so. He just likes to do that, keep himself just slightly busy as he waits for things to happen. Waits for another cue from Her.

Just as he nips at the soup over the rim of his cup, he is startled.

"Quite a show. Well done," is what he hears. But what startles Victor isn't the words per se, it's the volume of them. How they are spoken outside himself.

It's not his Mistress this time.

He doesn't turn his head to see who's addressing him. Instead he closes his eyes, feels the savory taste of his soup in his mouth before he answers.

"Glad you liked it."

He hears steps, it's more like small skips really, behind him until he feels her standing next to him. Foal-like legs in fur-lined boots is what he sees once he bothers to look through the corner of his eye, before she sits down.

"So you're Victor," she says, and this is when Victor becomes interested. Interested enough to really turn his head, but not quite to ask her name in return.

He sees locks of brown hair wrestle their way out of a purple hat, amber eyes looking straight at him. They belong to a girl, no, a young woman is probably more apt. A young woman with a smile that can mean many, many things. Things Victor still haven't had the time to acquaint himself with.

"I used to skate here," she says when she realises that Victor's not impressed by her worldly knowledge, "but I quit. I'm just here to pick up my things."

Those words are strange to Victor, for he himself cannot picture a life without skating, without eyes on him, the energy of others filling him up. Without the love affair he has with The Ice. Naturally, he asks, and it's nothing but a simple question to some. But to a skater, it's really all and everything, a question any aspiring athlete can ask himself from time to time.

"Why?" is what Victor asks, and he has to wait a while for she sits quiet at first, then laughs a little, almost to herself before she answers.

"There are more things to life than  _skating_ , you know."

Victor stifles what pops up in his mind and on his tongue. He does so because She's speaking to him again, implores him to defend her colours. ' _So, you're probably not a good skater, then,'_  is what he wants to say, for it's the only explanation his fourteen year old mind can come up with, the only reason why one would turn Her away. Instead, he huffs a laugh because what she just said, not his Mistress that speaks inside but this wayward daughter of Hers next to him, is just the stupidest thing he's heard all day. And he's been listening to Yakov. All day.

"You'll figure it out," she says, her eyes trailing off from Victor's blue across the rink. Her gaze lingers on the ice for a bit, just enough to make Victor feel like she's told him the biggest lie only seconds ago. A lie she, too, knows is a lie.

"There's nothing but skating," Victor says then, after downing a mouthful of soup. Still somewhat befuddled and annoyed at her for trying to draw new maps for him, make him question what he knows. But he slips due to that annoyance, allows his Mistress to talk in his stead. "That's what losers say. Maybe you should try harder."

The young woman looks at him again, eyes blown up and lips slightly apart.

People tend to react to  _Her_ words like that, becoming nothing less than gobsmacked and at a loss for words. Victor is certain that it is because they're true, but there's a sting inside when he becomes laughed at, when his conversational partner's voice echoes throughout the rink. It's not enough for him to question anything of his Mistress' teachings, but that laugh that doesn't need words to say that he's nothing but a silly boy to her and, oh, it  _hurts_.

Victor can feel himself frowning as her laughter dies down. Almost into his cup, he scowls, "Then tell me what there is,  _if_ you're so smart."

The young woman adjusts her hat, slightly askew since she tossed her head back and really went in for that laugh, and turns a little. As if to face him.

"Well," she says, "you're too young to understand."

Her hand is on Victor's shoulder now, and Victor recognises that hand. It's a hand elders use when trying to talk sense into a person. He scoffs at her.

"Hey," she continues, "even if you're too young to understand—"

She leans in a bit and Victor automatically puts his hands up, his cup balancing precariously on his lap. He doesn't know why, but it's just one of those automatic reactions a person has sometimes, maybe it's to ward himself. Strange, really, because she's nothing he's afraid of. Annoyed at, yes, but nothing else.

Victor feels her hair against his open palms and fingers, it weaves itself in between them and tickles them. It's soft. He feels her lips on his. They're soft too.

"—you'll understand soon enough," she smiles as she leans back, corrects her hat once again, and stands up.

"What's your name?" Victor asks, voice low, trying to break through that mist of confusion she's brought upon him.

"Yana," she replies.

And with that, the foal-like legs in the fur-lined boots are skipping off across the rows of seats, heading for the locker rooms. Heading out to what one could expect to be greener pastures.

Victor can't sleep that night when he returns to his little cardboard box of a room at school. He can't sleep, for that kiss made him feel nothing at all.

 

**~**~**

 

When Victor emerges from underneath his duvet, the brief glare of the mobile screen lights up his side of the bed. It's almost like a lighthouse, signalling to others fumbling around to watch out and stay away from what's happening around that light. He hurries to put the screen-side of his mobile phone down against his chest as he scrambles to find the power button. His eyes need a bit of time adjusting now, the absence of light bringing a new dignity to the dark.

It's pitch black for a while before contours of their bedroom start to form before Victor's eyes, the almost skulking shadows from seconds before becoming more clear and defined with every breath. Victor remains like that, on his back and slowly breathing with his phone against his chest, until he can see the opposite wall, adorned with photos and medals and plaques. When he sees it, he soundlessly sneaks out of bed and heads out the bedroom door on light feet.

He needs to drink. That flutter inside feels like it's fanning a flame, one that makes him dry on the inside.

The stream that runs from faucet is thin and makes almost no sound at all as it hits the sink. Victor is ready with a glass in his hand, but allows a lone finger assess the temperature of the water before he collects some and downs it.

Victor leans back at the marble countertop and places the glass down on the surface with a clink. With a sigh, he turns on his mobile phone anew and studies the photo again. The photo of Yana's obituary.

It's somewhat of a mystery, really. Even though she's been gone for quite some time now, lost to the world at twenty-six, he's still kept it. Stranger still is the fact that he felt like he needed to keep it in the first place. They only met properly that one time, when her lips touched his, but, for some reason, that encounter gained importance to him over the years. Became invaluable when some pieces suddenly started to nudge themselves into place for him. Of course he didn't know it then, being fourteen and full of things that he really can't find himself to care about as much anymore, that the brief encounter with her would teach him more than he would ever expect it to. Or maybe, he did know. Maybe, it just wasn't important to think about such things back then, such as cause and effect and fate and its consequences, whilst trying to dominate the world.

And now, as Victor's finger is close to the trashcan icon in his gallery, he realises that the now blurry image that has survived more mobile phones than he can count. With every new mobile phone, Yana's description of her time on earth has lost more of its resolution and clarity. Even though the text is nothing but a heavily compressed blur, making him almost unable to read the text although he squints and zooms in, he can cite it by heart.

To think that love can do that as well. Take a life, just like that.

Victor scoffs a little, standing there in just his underwear with the edge of the marble countertop pressing into his lower back.  _Of course, meeting you was important_ , he mouths to himself,  _even then_.

"Thanks," he says slightly louder, his voice soft, as his finger makes contact with the screen. "You showed me the way."

Victor turns a little on his feet, decided on returning back to the haven underneath the duvet. The harbor made by Yuuri's frame. But as he walks, makes himself ready to round the corner and take the few steps necessary to reach the bedroom, he stops outside another door. One that is closed.

He's sure he heard a clink.

 

**:: III ::**

 

Victor is twenty one when he invites a person home to spend the night.

It's stupid, really, how it comes about, all because of his skating club overbooked its master class sessions. Overbooked it to the extent that the surplus guests are forced to find other means of accommodation, even though the event is an annual happening. This year, it seemingly caught everyone by surprise.

Victor is on the ice when he hears the discussions and sees the snow globe sized drama play out by the boards. As always, Yakov is impossible to ignore when he's in that mood which is why Victor listens intently and just glides around, making indistinct patterns on the ice instead of something extravagant, until the noise by the boards becomes more like grunts, huffs and scoffs. Until those paperclipped pages aren't being waved around like some bad replica of a gymnastics ribbon.

He knows Yakov's done by then, when the coach's excessive arm waving, loud words and firm company have become scarce, finally, and exchanged for other means of showing discontent. He knows that's when one usually can approach Yakov and subtly pitch in other things, such as ideas, opinions or wants.

"So," Victor laughs as approaches the boards, seeing the club's higher-ups leave the rink like a stampeding herd in search of the next proverbial watering hole, "how many?"

Leaning against the boards with his hips, he sees Yakov's jaw become tense upon asking the question, that sinew almost popping out of the side of the man's neck. Victor wonders if he really hears the screeching sound of teeth being pressed and ground together, but before he dives further into that thought, Yakov interrupts him.

"Three," is what Yakov says, and it really sounds more like a groan than anything else. After a slight pause, and a much bigger sigh, he adds, "Girls. Juniors."

"You've always been a good samaritan," Victor replies flippantly, even though the laugh that threatens to burst out of him is giving him a run for his money. Yakov housing three girls under the age of sixteen? Hell, that is a weekend Victor would chop off an arm and a leg,  _easily_ , to be able to witness first hand. But instead of rubbing it in, he humors Yakov, allows his coach to feel like his student is in fact showing his plight some respect at least. "So, it's all fixed now?" Victor asks, sliding the pages Yakov's holding on to out of his grip.

Instead of saying anything, Yakov gives him that stare. The one that means that he's probably asked a really stupid question, one that is horrifyingly close to not be dignified with an answer.

"No," Yakov mutters like it wasn't obvious already, hands finding their way into the pockets of his coat instead, now that they're freed from the few pages with names upon names, all those problems to be solved.

Victor eyes the pages, not really paying attention to the columns of names that have been crossed out. It's more for show, to make Yakov feel a little more at ease about his forced-upon agreement made with the representatives of the club. In fact, Victor's not really interested in this master class weekend, he's more interested in—

"Yakov," Victor says, his heart suddenly picking up pace inside his chest, "I… I can have someone at my place. If it makes stuff easier."

—the hours not spent in the rink. That weekend, at least.

Yakov frowns a little then, but instead of saying anything, he reaches for the paperclipped pages and gives them a pull, one that's just enough for Victor to release them. A stout finger starts to trail down the page Victor has been studying, jumping a bit more quickly between names that aren't already crossed out.

How strange it may seem, Victor is holding his breath. Maybe, Yakov won't say anything. Maybe, Yakov won't read into what he'll undoubtedly find. Maybe, Yakov won't be anything than his coach for once and give him this without discussion.

The scoff that follows shortly thereafter, makes Victor understand that maybe, Yakov won't do or be any of those things.

"Is that really a good idea?" is all Yakov says, but to a twenty two year old Victor who has to look him straight in the eye, Yakov is actually saying so much more.

Victor tries to disregard that, the things both said and unsaid, as he straightens his back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. He's not sure if he wants to come across as defiant, but he really wants Yakov to understand the unreasonable. By asking that question, Yakov could just as well have asked if things such as breathing is a good idea. It's something one needs, just as well as Victor knows he needs  _that._

"Yes," Victor says, his shoulders square, feeling confident. Feeling sure. "I have room."

"Vic—"

"I'll text him," Victor says, his hand diving into the pocket of his puffer vest whilst trying to keep his voice steady, "and the club will thank me for doing what's not expected of me. For once."

The rattling of Victor's skate guards are the only noise heard as he walks away, his head bent down and eyes glued to the screen on his phone. He raises his gaze eventually, but not before a 'yes' on his screen burns into his retinas, creating infinite scenarios as well as hopes and dreams.

And after that 'yes', it doesn't take long before Victor finds himself in his flat. He's on his sofa, hair still damp, trying to relax but that leg that's bouncing in short, erratic intervals doesn't help him calm himself down even the slightest.

Ever since that text was sent at the rink, shortly after he declared to Yakov that he was going to do just that, he's been feeling self-conscious for some reason, nervous in a way that feels new to him. At the same time, though, there's something else that manifests inside him. Something he has found harder and harder to control. Something that, and it's really Victor's best attempt of describing what happens inside to himself, wants out.

He takes up his phone from the pocket of his sweats although he knows that no new messages have made the phone buzz against his leg, but it feels better to have that continuous and steady watch over the device. Even if it's just to realise that time, when waiting, moves torturously slow. 18:36 is what the phone claims the time to be, this time too.

Victor barely feels the gentle shoves Makkachin does to his hand in order to make him pet him, but miraculously enough, his leg stops with its nervous oscillations. Not because of how his hand almost automatically takes to the habit of stroking the dog's head with long, slow movements, but rather, how he becomes fettered by thoughts instead, locking his body into place in that light gray sofa.

What Victor's mind can't seem to let go is the situation he now finds himself in. Ever since he bought his flat, which isn't too long ago but enough to make him feel that it really is his home, it's been no one but him sleeping there. Or, truth be told, him  _and_ Makkachin. Though, he doesn't know how it came to be just them, that his flat morphed into a place people just won't get leisurely invited to. But now, he has invited someone and that must mean something. He just can't figure out why that is, the origin of that decision and what made him go against himself. For, truth be told, a lot of things can be said about certain actions being done, but there's more information in actions that never get the chance to be just that, the ones that aren't allowed to bloom into something overtly manifested.

The muted chime from the door sends Victor's heart up though his body, until it settles somewhere in his throat. The way it's violently beating against the thin skin makes Victor put a palm against the side of his neck, feeling every throb reverberate inside him. Firing him up with blood that runs not only hot, but scorching.

Standing up, Victor suddenly feels lightheaded. He tries to swallow as he runs a hand through his hair, his legs suddenly in control of his entire being, for he moves closer to the door without having a say. He tries to breathe when his hand rests on the handle, but it's just not enough. Not deep enough, not calming enough, even though he stands with his lips slightly apart, trying to get more air inside him.

His hand doesn't care about such trivial things, though, for it pushes down on the handle and opens the door.

"Hi," Victor hears, as if though water. Fathoms and fathoms deep, himself being even deeper down in a trench of disbelief.

"Hi," be begins, drowning in that cheeky smile and dark eyes. Drowning in those waves of promises, crashing over him. "Come in," he continues after a beat or many, and he feels embarrassed that his voice doesn't sound breezy or even blasé. That side to him is undoubtedly gone now, lost with every woosh in his ears that his heated blood creates. Washed away and lost at the sea that is inside of him.

"Nice place," Victor hears, his eyes latched onto the back that creates an arch as the shoes are removed, a slight curve as the coat is taken off. "Can I…"

Victor absentmindedly hums a response, holding on to that discarded coat as his guest walks inside, turns the corner and becomes someone who is there, but out of sight.

The coat smells of him, the guest, a mix of scents both fleeting and thick around the back of the collar. It's so different from his own, Victor realises, whilst slowly burying his nose into the black fabric and takes a deep breath. As he holds it in, he sees images flash before his eyes. Images he haven't dared to ever see, their consequences forbidden to think about.

Now, he knows why the invite came about, what he wants or hopes, rather, that the weekend will give him.

He manages to part with the coat, putting it on the same hook as his own, as he leaves what he sees inside himself. The next view he's met by makes him long for the safety of that corner, the heady dream of that scented collar. There's just something that strikes him, seeing another man play with his dog. Another man in his home. Another man, together with him, like it's the most sensible thing in the world.

"W-want a coffee or something?" Victor asks, and oh, the how it feels to have those words roll off his tongue!

"Thank you," the guest replies as he stands, leaving Makkachin belly side up on the floor, paws flailing uncontrollably with a lolling tongue close to touching the floor.

It's silent when Victor makes the coffee. Yes, the silence is thick as he's measuring the water, putting in the coffee filter, scooping up coffee from that awkwardly childish metal tin and, finally, pressing the 'on'-button. But, as soon as the coffee maker starts to pop and steam, so does he.

It starts with a wayward finger, barely touching the hand of his guest because that is all he dares to try. It's silly, really, having touched his body before both off the ice and on, in various levels of being clothed but still, he feels so insecure. So lost to something bigger.

 _It's not the same_ , Victor thinks to himself, and there's almost like something clicks into place then. It really isn't the same, the playful touches on the ice, the banter between them during shows, the visions of him undressing after a competition, as what the both of them are experiencing now. This is true. This is real. This is just… between them.

His guest huffs a laugh and inches his hand away upon feeling that ghost of a touch. Victor's level of uncertainty waxes then, builds until he dares to look into those dark eyes that are narrow now, smiling.

"You're not a good host," his guest snickers, "let me have my coffee first."

Those seconds of silence that multiply between them ends with the both of them laughing in unison, both of them falling into it as if given a signal. Victor can only imagine what his guest must be thinking, and he wonders if it's even remotely similar to what swirls around in his own head. Victor feels that he's not any less self-conscious or nervous now, but somehow, it's easier to stand there before him. It's easier because he, his guest, knows, understands and reads into the action made by that lone finger. They've reached something mutual.

Still laughing, Victor walks towards the cupboard and picks out two cups that are new, probably still unused because they're made to be a pair with their patterns and colours complimenting each other, weaving into each other and continuing back and forth. Cups he thought were the stupidest house-warming present when he once received them. Now, they've soared to become the best house-warming gift he's ever got.

His hand is shaking when he fills them both, and gives one of the cups a gentle nudge towards his company. Picking it up and handing it over would reveal the tension he has inside, so he opts out just to nurture some of his dignity.

When the two of them head for the sofa, warming their hands around the cups filled with coffee, Victor can't deny how good it feels. Not just the warming of hands, but everything else as well. How he can dare to sit close with his legs touching someone else's, how it is suddenly simple to just reach out and touch and allow the hand to linger. How an arm around his shoulders feels normal and okay.

They haven't finished their cups of coffee when Victor's guest wants to use the bathroom and does so without locking or even closing the door, making Victor stand by the doorway.

 _You look good in my bathroom_ , is what Victor wants to say as his guest flushes the toilet and continues to wash his hands, but the words won't come out. He's completely taken with what he sees, like there's a mesmerising alternate universe he's suddenly gazing into, like he's went through the looking glass to the other side where everything just fits.

"Victor," his guest interrupts him, doing a small come-hither motion with his hand.

Standing in front of the mirror, seeing that, seeing  _them_ , sparks something inside him. It's like his blood has been ignited again, the image of them standing next to each other, a hand finding its way up his shirt, acts the match that lights him up anew.

When Victor is set ablaze, the fire always spreads.

 

**~**~**

 

When Victor breaks free from that memory, he finds himself with his hand on the handle to the bathroom door. He must have opened it and stepped inside whilst being lost in that flurry of thoughts and images inside, and he finds it incredibly strange to be standing there like he does. Inside the bathroom, with his hand still on the handle like it's a lifeline. A way to pull himself back, out into the life he now has. The life he's eternally grateful for.

Victor dares to let go of the handle, though, and takes the few steps needed to reach the bathroom mirror. He's changed it since then, since that encounter that made him realise what he was and what he couldn't, or shouldn't, pursue.

For that is how he remembers it at least, the encounter with Konstantin. How their moving, their desperate fucking on the basin made the mirror come loose, and how it created a sound that he still hears from time to time. The sound that probably made him take a peek inside. The sound that he thinks he hears just to remind himself who he really is, what he's gone through to get where he is and the things he's learned since then. That  _clink_.

He doesn't blame Konstantin for what happened afterwards, he's never been able to although he probably should to some extent. How that encounter opened up to many, many more although not specifically with Konstantin. How that encounter taught him to be cautious. How that encounter—

Victor brusquely turns on the faucet and collects water into his open hands, diving into them again and again and again. This is something he doesn't want to remember, but once that thought gets a hold of him, it doesn't let him go. It branches out, making any possible try to disconnect with it a way to become even more entangled and ensnared.

—made him choose the Ice again.

Water is dripping off of Victor's chin when he raises his head, when he sees that dark, monochrome reflection of himself looking back.

Yes, he chose the ice after that and although it tears inside him, he remembers the choice made. How the scales of his life began to tip in Her favor again, all because of Konstantin. Victor thinks that it has got to do with what Konstantin said, after they had showered and had moved to his bed that, back then, was too narrow for two.

Victor dries his face by patting it dry with a towel, neatly folded close to the basin, and he can't help that wry smile that takes over his face. The smile that is more bitter than sweet, the smile he gets when he suddenly remembers the comment Yakov made the following day, on that weekend so many years ago.

' _You're more focused now, Victor. Good, remember this feeling!'_

That time, Yakov really proved that he didn't know shit.

After all, 'This  _won't work,'_ is what Konstantin had whispered, his fingers tangled up in Victor's hair. ' _You know that, right?'_

To be honest, Victor knew. Although Victor wanted it, the sense of normalcy, the sense of closeness, the sense of just being loved for who and not what he was, he  _knew_. Shortly after that, the choice was made for he had signed himself over to his Mistress again and, rightly so, for the wins started to line up and crowd each other, carrying on through to the next season, and the next, and the next. The wins also made him more devoted to Her but strangely enough, more lost in the process.

Indeed, Yakov doesn't know shit at times, often mistaking the need to forget for focus and zeal.

Thinking about his coach's not so able sides, and his own back then, makes Victor unaware of the fact that he exited the bathroom. The door remains slightly open as he, instead of heading back to the bedroom as he initially planned, ends up on the sofa. It's a habit still alive despite the fact, the way he's sitting as close as he can against the armrest, waiting for the company that will never join him again.

Victor feels his lower lip vibrate as he tucks his legs underneath himself, for as annoying Yakov has been throughout his career, Makkachin never made that mistake. Makkachin, who always saw right through him.

 

**:: IV ::**

 

Victor is nothing but a few breaths from turning twenty six when he's convinced to hang in there for one more season.

Quitting is a thought that, in all honesty, he's been toying with back and forth for maybe the last year or so. Although he can't quite pinpoint exactly what made it come to him in the first place, that thought is one that seems to come more often now than before and especially when it doesn't feel easy. And today really hasn't been an easy day.

Victor thinks about it when he unlocks his front door and steps inside, how some days are easier than others. Normally, he wouldn't mind being shrieked whilst skating, getting an earful from Yakov about how he  _never listens_ , how he  _needs to come down to earth_ , how he  _needs to stop thinking that everything is about him_.

Normally, he wouldn't mind the questions posed by the skaters who are brave enough to talk to him. Asking him the same never ending questions about him, his plans and his personal life. What he does to constantly stay on top.

Normally, he wouldn't care about not getting much attention from actual people on his birthday instead of the normal barrage that comes with the anonymous people behind the screen names on social media.

Normally, he wouldn't listen to Her and the whispers, the ones that usually leaves him be as soon as he gets home and tries to live that other life where Her could haves, would haves, should haves don't have that much of a say.

This day, though, is one when everything he tries to keep on the outside goes straight in. Strange that, how a win when he was younger sent him up through the air until he reached a high that was impossible to come down from and now… it feels like a loss carrying gold, standing in the middle on top of a podium only tethers him closer to the ground, opening up a passageway straight to his heart for anything and anyone that wants to take a shot at him. Like gold doesn't matter anymore.

Victor absentmindedly leaves his luggage by the door and shrugs out of his coat. His gloves receives a similar treatment as they're left somewhere on the floor next to his shoes, wet from the snow outside.

It usually feels good to come home, to close that door behind him and leave the world outside where it is and should be. To become surrounded by the familiar smells, the silence, but... once the outside has begun to find its way in, home doesn't feel like the sanctuary it's meant to be. It's not at all the place where he can be the Victor no one knows about. The place where he can finally be himself.

The coffeemaker is the first thing he turns on this time getting home, even before the lights. As it does its little concert, sounds made by the water up being heated before the coffee becomes soaked inside the filter, he retreats to the sofa across the room and buries himself underneath a woolen blanket. Pressing up against the armrest with legs folded underneath himself.

The gentle tapping of claws against the wooden floor is something Victor loves, it brings to mind memories and secrets shared just between the two of them. Today, though, he doesn't hear the rhythmic click-clack, nor does he react to the shifting of the sofa's cushions as he becomes joined in his not so constructive pondering.

It takes a few tries with that paw touching his thigh, barely felt by Victor, but the spell he's under becomes broken for a few seconds at least.

"Not now, Makkachin," Victor says in a distracted manner, now lost between here and there, torn between the way his inside and the outside suddenly seem like mirrors of one another.

"Not  _now_ , Makkachin!" Victor says, firmer this time, and gets to his feet. He wants that cup of coffee, hoping that the hot liquid somehow can wash away, no, burn away what he's starting to feel is building inside his throat.

The click-clack sounds follows him, though. From the sofa onto the floor, continuing on towards the cupboard where they create a staccato of eagerness. They continue on with this upped pace, set on rounding the kitchen island, and finally, back again towards the sofa where they slow down.

When Victor finally sits down again, huddling underneath that blanket with the contents of his cup almost sloshing over the rim, he's not alone.

Victor soon understands that he needs to give up that balancing act. With a frown, he puts his cup on the coffee table for the nose that is trying to make contact with him is adamant. Not until the cup is out of his hand, and especially not until he starts stroking that soft fur, fingers raking through it every now and then and getting stuck in the curls, does the nose cease its attempts to gain his attention.

Something happens then, when the contact between man and dog recommences. When the connection between a reluctant speaker and a constantly avid listener grows stronger.

"How was your weekend then? Ekaterina gave you a good dinner tonight, right? Took you for a walk after? I heard you ran loose in the park. Yeah, that was nice, huh?" Victor mumbles between the strokes, his mind led away from his previous torture.

They sit like that for a while, Victor mumbling small nothings whilst stroking Makkachin and Makkachin allowing Victor to at least taste the coffee off and on before coaxing him into touching him again. That nose is beyond stubborn when it shoves and digs its way underneath his arm, demanding but kind.

And then, after that fifty second stroke or so, something happens inside Victor when he's playing with some of the curls at the back of Makkachin's head, almost behind one of the ears.

"I don't think I… want to do this anymore," Victor whispers, eyes stuck to the window behind the TV.

It's so soft, that voice of his, but nevertheless, he notices that Makkachin's ears raise up a bit through the corner of his eye.

"Yeah... crazy, huh?" he sighs. "I… I don't know. There must be something… after? Right?"

Makkachin shifts in the silence that follows, and soon thereafter, Victor's thighs becomes heated up by the poodle's head now tilted to the side and placed on his lap with a sigh. That nose, previously so uncompromising, doesn't demand anything in that moment. Instead, the dog just breathes. Long and slow inhales and warm and just as slow exhales onto the skin of Victor's stomach. The huffs are calming, amplified by the way the dark eyes make contact Victor's on occasion.

It's as if this quiet moment, this opportunity undoubtedly created for Victor by Makkachin, makes Victor  _say it_.

"I'm not sure I want to skate anymore, Makka."

Victor knows that his dog probably knows more than he can understand, but one thing that is certain is the fact that Makkachin doesn't understand the more intricate parts of the Russian language. Even so, Makkachin sits up when Victor whispers that, when he's testing those unspeakable words and allows them to be released into the world for the very first time.

"Don't look at me like that," Victor lovingly scolds. Even though he says it as a joke, there's a hint of seriousness in there. Especially after a weekend, no, a lifetime of being judged, he has to face the same treatment from his unconditional companion.

He reaches out, trying to rub Makkachin's ear but the dog backs up and becomes out of reach, his head tilted to the side as he watches his master.

"What?" Victor asks despite the sting, "Are you going to have opinions about me, too?"

Victor straightens himself a little where he sits. The impulse to get to his feet, to put that cup with coffee that's too cold to drink away and head for the shower suddenly becomes interrupted as Makkachin comes close. It's like the poodle sits next to Victor but leans in somehow, with his paw making pressure against Victor's thigh and his head put across Victor's shoulder as if to invite him into an embrace.

So, Victor does. He shoots into that embrace, arms around the back of his dog as his cheeks dive into the curly fur.

"Please hang in there for one more season, Makka," Victor sobs, "then I promise it'll be... just you and me."

Victor can't actually remember the last time he cried, but in that sofa, a few minutes past midnight and a few minutes into his twenty sixth birthday, he does. Not because he's sad, that feeling dissipated some heartbeats ago, but rather, because he feels like he's finally understood.

 

**~**~**

 

Victor lets out a stuttering breath as he comes back to the here and now. Thinking of Makkachin still hurts, naturally, and this memory is particularly painful. There were so many layers to that exchange, how it seemed like Makka actually understood everything that played out that night although it was impossible for him to, and how he acted and reacted accordingly to that. How Makkachin, with his limited means of communication said and did exactly enough. More than most people, for that matter.

 _I miss him so much_ , Victor thinks to himself, the back of his hand gliding underneath his eyes, for this is one of those exact moments in time where Makka would know and do nothing but the right things. Makka would ask for pets and hugs, nicely at first and become more demanding with every shunned attempt.

Because that's how he was, Makkachin. Giving his master nothing but a few tries to pull together before telling him what to do, never thinking of giving up on leading his master out on the other side. And,  _gods_ , what if it had been just slightly different that night? What if Makkachin hadn't come close as if to comfort him, helped him making that decision to continue one more season, one more year? Then, this night would be so completely different. Hell, the last three years would have been. The rest of his life too, no doubt.

For the first time since he got to bed and received a kiss goodnight, Victor feels a warmness spreading out inside his chest. It's as if his heart is helping out, spreading the warmth with its steady beats until he doesn't feel the need to shudder underneath that blanket anymore.

Victor realises then, maybe for the first time, that Makkachin gave him all of it. The drive to skate another season and with it, the strange happenstance of meeting Yuuri which in turn opened up to other possibilities. Also; the dramatic way he and his student were forced closer to each other by being apart, all orchestrated by Makkachin being a thieving glutton, all of which culminated in this; the flat not being empty anymore, a golden ring on his finger, a bed that goes from warm to molten.

When the warmth pulsates further and reaches Victor's face, he smiles. It's not that supernova smile he knows keeps bringing his fiancé to his knees, in more ways than one, mind. No, it's that smile he shared with no one but Makkachin. The one that is obsolete now. That bittersweet smile of knowing that the only way he's ever been understood and respected and treated no differently, whole-heartedly so, until now is… because he bought it and brought it home when it was ten weeks old.

"Fuck," Victor whispers and stands up, the blanket falling into a crumpled heap on the floor with a low rustle. He knows what that's all about, that voice that fills him with doubt. It's the one who acts as a counterweight to Her, his Mistress, the one that started to take Her place once he had started to doubt Her, make himself free of Her. The one that have been telling him that he's going to grow old alone, become forgotten, stay unloved.

Strangely enough, that makes Victor a heartbeat from sprinting into his bedroom, yearning to leave those thoughts behind. He stifles the urge, the one that tells him to throw himself onto the bed in the hopes of colliding with Yuuri, becoming one with him for a few seconds as gravity and speed forces them together. Instead, he walks back towards the bedroom, not without a hurry, until he stands by the foot of the bed, silently watching.

Yuuri resembles something very relaxed when he sleeps. A dog upside down, or maybe even a cat. He didn't at first, but those two years spent sharing a bed, a flat, a life together has made Yuuri sprawl out. Take more and more space. Claim what Victor think is rightfully his to claim, truth be told.

So, Victor crawls into bed and as he does, magic couldn't even start to describe the way it seems like Yuuri just knows that he's back. How he contracts and balls himself up, until he finally stays still on his side, his back turned to Victor. Inviting him in, asking him to join him and get close. Asking him to leave what's not made to fit in their bed, in their life, behind.

Victor does join Yuuri, erases every possible space between them as his cool front meets with Yuuri's warm back. Their bodies are fitting together like the puzzle they are, with their individual pieces becoming more scarce and turning into shared ones, mutual ones.

As Victor's nose just lands into that black hair that smells of citrus shampoo from Japan and Russian winter winds, he realises that the thoughts are still there, still catching up to him, still trying to make him remember his insecurities, his bad choices, his unwanted sacrifices, his—

" _V-Vityusha?_ "

—never ending love for the safekeeper of his heart. The one that once gave him solace by telling him that he needed to be nothing but himself.

Words he, just now, has started to understand.

 

**:: V ::**

 

Victor is twenty seven when that restlessness he's always felt finally stops for a beat.

Victor thinks about it one night, still wide awake in that banquet room gone private just for him, even though the Katsuki family and their patrons have gone to bed. The inn is quiet and the only sounds heard are chirp-chirps of cicadas and the occasional, hollow clank of the  _souzu_ , one of the few words that he actually remembers in Japanese. All because he really liked the sound the see-sawing bamboo makes in the garden.

He's been in Japan for a bit more than a month already, close to two, and spring is slowly turning into summer with warm and salty winds coursing through the small coastal town that is Hasetsu. If Victor should describe his experience so far, he would say that Japan is different. Or, rather, the feeling he has  _inside_ when he's in Japan is different. In truth, it doesn't matter how many kilometres he puts between himself and the country he was born in, because he always feels the chains of toil when being home, expectations weighing heavy on his shoulders, like life is a constant masquerade to partake in. A calling that beckons, cries and charms its way back.

Of course, there are benefits too, benefits that really doesn't do anything for  _him_ , Victor. Instead, those benefits cater to the Living Legend. In Japan, though, there's none of that, no toil, no expectations, no masquerade. No callings.

Strange really.

It wasn't like that in the beginning though, when he appeared at Yutopia like a sprightly spring gale, expecting things to  _happen_  in his life, having spent hours and hours on the plane from Helsinki playing with countless scenarios of things playing out in his favor, and yet, all he was faced with was surprise and a slight standoffishness from the person that had invited him there once he arrived. Retrospectively, it felt stupid to have made that choice to just get there, to Japan, since it resulted in him, at least once, having tears rolling down his cheeks whilst trying to sleep. Alone, shunned and misunderstood. Never had Victor felt so unwelcome, his talents so useless, his mere presence so obsolete. Making him wish for Her and Her cold embrace.

That banquet, almost six months ago now, had promised much, and the contrasts to what was said and done then with the actions and lack of words upon his arrival and the weeks that followed, made him think that it might have been a dream after all. Being asked to come to Japan. To take a  _season off_. To  _coach_. All whilst a frantic pelvis was rubbing up on him for everyone to see, awakening what he's been keeping safe and suppressed from himself and others.

But, things have indeed changed and this last week has been… Victor tries to choose an appropriate word for himself as he reaches for his mobile phone to check the time but fails, not because it's quite a lot past midnight but because he finds it impossible to dress that feeling inside his chest in words.

All of this started with a talk on the beach as a try to poke a hole through Yuuri's defenses. Yuuri had been isolating himself, making it difficult to do anything productive with his skating. Almost resembling something scared and feral in the way he kept slipping out of Victor's grasp, or line of sight at least, throwing bad excuses around himself which Victor decided to respect, somewhat.

Even if the talk started with having all the focus on Yuuri, it surprisingly ended up with Victor being told to be no one else but himself. It's a big thing to ask of someone who doesn't know that for sure, but since it was asked with a fervor, Victor kind of understands that it's an important thing to be oneself. At least to Yuuri.

And if Victor could take the time to slow down, to take the time to be completely honest with himself, he would agree that it's important to himself, too. But unsurmountable. Almost impossible.

"How to be myself… huh?" Victor whispers to himself as he rolls over to his side, pulling the duvet closer around himself, moving Makkachin around a little as he does.

What came after that had actually stung a bit, hearing that Yuuri had looked up to him. What does this shy and introverted skater from Japan really know when it comes to what he's been looking up to? After all, Victor knows that no one knows him, really. There's an air of mystique around him, the  _Living Legend_ , but no one knows, bothers nor cares to find out what it is like to be  _Victor Nikiforov_. The one who sits by the beach and feels scared all of a sudden, so scared that he gives a bullshit answer about not being easy on his student because that is how he'll show him his love.

 _Oh, the love I want to show him, but_ , Victor thinks to himself as he sits up, pulling his knees up to his chest,  _there's something else too._

And just like that, Victor gets lost in memory of their skating session, held a bit later the same week. How he had gotten tired doing repetition after repetition for Yuuri was insatiable. Willing to learn. Demanding in every sense of the word. And then, it happened.

The Touch.

All touches on the ice are used to correct and bend and enhance what's already there, at least between coach and student. Any other touch would be wrong. Victor knows this although he's stepped over the line himself with his student, which he has felt the consequences of time and time again during the weeks that have passed since. But that touch, made by a lone finger making contact with the crown of his head, was nothing like that. It was a bridge being built, a promise, an invitation for Victor to understand that he's on a journey too.

Victor knows he's always been accused by people close to him saying that he's always pleasing himself, not paying attention to other people's needs before his own, but that really isn't the truth. For as whimsical as Victor knows people see him as, the whimsy isn't a selfish need, nor an egotistical trait. It's a desperation, brought on by an inner unrest that he tries to feed and sate by acting on immediately. It really is a feeling of being hollow, vast and empty and being on a constant hunt. Hoping that something might fill that void.

As Victor stretches out his legs and arms, mewling softly as some of his joints pop a little as his body puts itself back into place, he realises that the feeling in his chest is something else. It's an un-feeling of sorts for the void is not there anymore, or rather, it's there but not caving in. It's silent inside, its expansion halted.

"Are you there?" Victor says out loud whilst his hands are raking back his hair. "Or are we done with each other, you think? Are you going to let me go?"

Surprisingly or not, the answer Victor waited for never came.

 

**~**~**

 

"Mmm," Victor hums, his voice disappearing into Yuuri's hair, "I'm here. Go back to sleep."

"Why are you—" Yuuri mumbles into his pillow before a yawn garbles his voice, making Victor hold on to him just a little bit tighter.

"No talk, sleep."

Victor eases up the hold he has around Yuuri as Yuuri shifts and turns around. When Yuuri faces him, his eyes are still closed. Victor can't fully see Yuuri's facial features there in the dark, but he knows them all by heart. Knows them better than he knows his own flaws and imperfections, as he traces Yuuri's face with a finger. Yuuri's eyebrows, his small nose, thin lips, that little crease he has between his eyes, his lashes, all of them feel different to his fingertip. All of them having stories to tell, meanings to carry, connotation by the hundreds.

"Why were you up?" Victor thinks Yuuri mouths, sleep already tugging at him again for his breathing is slower now, his exhales being warm and wet, released straight into Victor's palm.

"Just… thinking, I guess," Victor replies, barely touching Yuuri's forehead with his lips.

"Of what?" Yuuri's mouth moves again, still not producing much of a sound.

Yuuri opens his eyes then, slowly, and they look so mesmerizingly dark underneath those dark lashes, like a trench to get lost in, to just sink into. When the two of them are like that, so close, so intimate, so in the moment with each other, Victor can't help but to look into them. He finds himself barely breathing when he does this, keeping him on the edge between knowing and wondering, for what if this is nothing but a dream and he's drunk off his head somewhere in Sochi? What if all of this is him projecting what he wants but still cannot have?

Those dark eyes caught him once, this is something Victor knows is true, but the ever after seems like a luxury to him. To do this all night. Every night.

"Of what?" Yuuri repeats, his eyes firmly looking into Victor's now.

"Hm… tough question," Victor says truthfully after a moment's thought. "Maybe… things that might have led me here. I'm not sure."

"Oh," Yuuri replies, with sound this time, as one of his hands rests against Victor's cheek. "Did you find what you were looking for? In there?" Yuuri says, tapping Victor's temple gently.

Victor can't help but huff a little when he hears the question, when he feels Yuuri's finger make contact with his skin. Instead of answering, for his answer could never be short nor could it ever be understandable, he closes his eyes, parts his lips and sips a kiss off of Yuuri's mouth.

"Do—" Yuuri begins between Victor's lapping kisses, "—you—" he continues, "—want to—"

"If I want to talk about it?" Victor asks, the tip of his nose touching Yuuri's. To be honest, he doesn't. Not about his particular journey. At least, not yet.

"You don't have to," Yuuri says, giving Victor's nose a flick with the help of his own.

"I know. We should probably sleep instead," Victor says simply, to which he receives a nod and a peck on the cheek. "Turn around, love."

And so, the stay there in the dark, Yuuri's front to Victor's back like when it all started but this time, Victor feels calm. Gone are the demons of insecurity, the callings of his Mistress, the restlessness for the first time that night. But, there's something itching inside him still, something that he really needs to figure out.

"Yuuri," Victor whispers, not being entirely sure if Yuuri has left him for the night. He kisses the nape of Yuuri's neck, and maybe it's a way to gain strength but nevertheless, it helps him say it. "I just… I just want to ask you something."

"Hm?" Yuuri mumbles in return, his head turned a little to his side. "Sure. What?"

"Do... uh…"

"What?" Yuuri repeats.

"What would have happened if we never met?"

"Are we really doing this now? You said you wanted to sleep?" Yuuri sounds a bit exasperated when he talks like that over his shoulder.

Victor nods, adds a little m-hm for good measure.

"Well," Yuuri sighs whilst rubbing some sleep out of his eyes, "I don't really know and I really don't want to think about it. But, just to be nice; what do you think?"

Victor doesn't think, he  _knows_. But instead of disclosing this, he turns Yuuri around before he puts himself on top of him, pulls the duvet over them both and weaves a story of how they would have met in their possible previous lives, in the ones that are to come and... what he wants them to do in their present.

As their hearts are upping the pace, their bodies warm and wet underneath that duvet and their breaths become shallow and hot, they miss the fact that the time just went from 23:59 to 00:00.

And then, Victor's phone lights up.


End file.
